


The New Deal

by BellatrixAlves



Category: Marvel
Genre: Brazil, Illegal Activities, Marvel Universe, Mental Instability, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 10:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15046829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellatrixAlves/pseuds/BellatrixAlves
Summary: After suffering a terrible accident, Bruce Banner takes refuge in Brazil when trying to avoid the U.S. Army. However, he will have to face Espinheiro "Chefão" (the Godfather) to have what he wants and desperately needs.





	The New Deal

The two monsters led the nearly unconscious man up the hill, dragging him, damn the hour they had left the motorcycle in the BemBem warehouse. A trip filled with exchanges of money and daily banned substances, kids from one side to the other, not knowing for sure that illegal businesses slipped. However, poorer people did not refuse to exchange the soccer ball for an alternative meal. Two streets below, nothing more, nothing less, and transportation would not be necessary to get there. The slender, fair-skinned man who, through the Devil's desires, had dared to assert, before the two much more muscular men:

“Quero falar com Espinheiro” (“I need to talk to Espinheiro.”)

Of course, with such a simple statement, the sweaty shirt of the white man would not be in that bloody state, stains dripping down his pale face. The unexpected confidence of that phrase gave rise to questions, until it exploded in furious attacks to his face, belly and genitalia. Such an outrage that with the police on their backs and the men afraid of being caught again, they took the poor man to the warehouse. There the boss could deal with the situation. Seeing as he wanted so badly to see him, they would fulfill his ultimate desire, without ever seeing the rage of Ra

Impressively, the victim did not have any great difficulty breathing; maybe a little shuffled with his lungs full of the dust of the area. Rocinha was filled with warm baths and little strangeness from the situation there. They had seen things of a much darker nature, certainly. Some little boys joined the curious trio and asked the two steel-skinned men who was that poor man a strange person who they had never seen, fact instantly apparent by the color of his skin. They’d laughed at the moment and started to sing some nasty tunes to the nearly unconscious man Either he did not understand much, or simply did not want to listen in order to save energy. Other people looked away, knowing those two monsters well enough.

The houses around them almost appeared to be from pre-classical times: they looked like unstable clay, which with a little push could collapse. Some of the wooden roofs already smelled more to East than North. Sealed with the materials that could be obtained, the dogs were kept as strong guardians, biting anyone, be it the feeding hand or the one with a gun. The houses all had a hairy, lifeless, emotionless color. Some did not even have color, becoming transparent, such as their citizens. The music played loudly, of five syllables only. The mothers calling for the boys. These behind the girls in tight skirts. These making little braids to each other. The seller fence from the house next door, that no one commented on. The seductive looking woman with black vision, the purple of the previous difficult night. The crazy of the “xaxata” on the loose. The fathers drinking. all of them wandering...They all formed a landscape of wretched people with visions clouded by unjust life; good faces for corrupt charities. Nobody wanted to know these citizens, Rocinha's "loose" ones. Likewise, no one cared for that poor white man, a mop of civilian dust.

Arriving at any land, any area, any other, the famous BemBem warehouse was installed, equipped with the highest possible security. Anyone who entered there by chance and without an invitation, would never leave such a place again. The building was almost collapsing, but it had a set of comrades ready to become its essential structure. Few people knew what was going on inside these four walls of sly brick. A well-known place in the favela, there was an infamous group of delinquents, surprisingly well organized. They were known by several name, but none with the right flavor. Was it a gang? Was it a pack? We don’t know; there were so shrouded in mystery.  
After exchanging a few words with the strong men that were guarding the place, rifles and machine guns in their large hands, the trio entered without a problem. The poor victim of violence kept to his feet the whole way without a sound, but he admitted to himself that his legs were not noted internally, such were the wounds caused by the dirty road. He could not see much, his shattered glasses laid two streets below. They entered through a gritty, blue-tinte, metal door and faced a fierce white light that covered the single division of the building. Several sofas, already in a very bad state, were stretched across the ward with a few dirty and broken plastic chairs. There was a huge pallet of packages covered in black plastic and sealed with glue. Some sacks were strangely well organized, surrounded by a few bottles from previous weeks. The place definitely had an awful smell of alcohol from all brands and shapes where the various bottles of cheap whiskey stood out.  
Some men sat on rotten furniture, loaded pallets, chairs of worst condition. They laughed, had fun with bad jokes, and sometimes, the rowdy ones began drawing punches and kicks to the comrade on the side. The voices were loud and the men spoke with poor grammar. They all seemed to orbit around a single being, noticeably older than the others, with the utmost respect guaranteed.

Espinheiro, The Chefão (The Godfather), as he was known, was a man already in his glorious fifties. The extremely sweaty black skin, covered in a green shirt and red Nike shorts, covered his well-worn bones and the diseased lungs of dangerous distant trades. The scratched voice of paraffin throats sounded like a bird that had not been singing in the right direction for a long time. It was noted that he was the individual with a much better presentation. Despite being sweat stained, his clothes were clearly of a higher quality.The eyes deceived him already, with a lazy one already.. The fifty years he had lived were apparent by the legs that had an uncommon thinness but, for the rest, he was well preserved stuck in the early forties, the end of the thirties. The mighty body had a covering of scars that photographed many venomous escapes. Entertained with a few words of muttered comrades, he smiled inwardly, not wanting too much reaction to be shown.

“Chefão, chegou uma encomenda!” (“Chefão, an order has arrived!”) Ricardinho, one of the monstruous men pushed the wounded being to the dirty floor, letting out some laughter at the expense of the miserable figure. The room, once quite a sprinkling of noises and voices, was immediately silenced in an atmosphere of curiosity.

“Mas como é então…” (“But how is it then…”) Espinheiro rose and approached the whole show slowly, looking at the two rough men waiting for a logical explanation to bring an unknown white man there. “Temos convidado?” (“Do we have a guest?”) 

“O cara se armou em espertalhão devido a poder falar com o senhor, Chefão” (“The guy set himself up smart because he could talk to you, Chefão.”) Josefo's grammatical structure was very weak, having given up the books long before they had begun. “Demos ao cabrão um enterro de porralhada mas nada mais fizemos. Decidimos levá-lo a senhor Chefão para decidir que fazer melhor.” (“We gave the motherfucker a taste of our job, nothing more. We decided to take it to you, Mr. Chefão, to decide what to do better.”).

Chefão did not agree very much with not being able to shoot someone if they were clowning around. However, lately the police had been more heavily armed in the favela and, fearing losing more comrades, he had to take care of the unwanted personally, in private. He pulled the little toy made to kill out of his pants and carried it, bending over to try to observe the face of the miserable man laid on the dirty floor.

“Oi, branquelas…quem é você?” (“Hey, cracker…who are you?") he asked. At the question, the very thin white man tried to gather enough strength in his arms to raise his head. His forehead dripped in blood and he felt his warm breathing coming to his view.

To stop that sad telenovela once and for all, seeing that the man clearly did not have the strength to stand up, Espinheiro crouched down, entwined his thick, raw fingers between the brown curls of the victim's hair and pulled them hard, violently forcing the face to be shown. With little patience, he pointed the gun to his forehead, bathed in vivid red liquid. The monstrous comrades had indeed done a splendid job on the man's face, covered with black bruises and open pools of wounds.

“Estou falando com você, porra! Quando eu questiono é pa responder, tá percebendo? Precisa de um desenho? O seu nome, filho da puta.” (“I'm talking to you, damn it! When  
I ask something, you need to answer, understood? Need a drawing? Your name, you son of a bitch.”)

The white man’s sight miraculously focused, and he was able to analyze some of the shapes and wrinkles that made up the features of the fifty year old guy. With the little strength left in his pulsating veins, he smiled. He realized that, despite everything, he had reached the desired destination. The warehouse was full of the comrades’ laughs, with some already opening some beers, looking intently, as though watching a bullfight; the upcoming senseless death of another “smart guy”. Between all the noise, it was understandable hat the comrades hadn’t heard to the words coming from the wounded man’s mouth.

“Bruce Banner...Doutor Bruce Banner” (“Bruce Banner....Doctor Bruce Banner”) With that said, he spat the blood that was filling his mouth into the face of the powerful Chefão and laughed without any problems. He was not going to die that day. Nor in any other. He would not let him. Banner rested his face on the floor and found some strength in his arms, to sit at least.

“Banner? Filho da puta da porra, não brinque com a minha cara!” (“Banner? Son of a fucking bitch, do not play with me!”) Espinheiro became curiously nervous, and suddenly, the room plunged into a deep silence; this time one of fear. It was common to see Chefão angry, but it was a rare thing to see him with a nervousness at the edge of his skin.

Bruce just chuckled and his tired laughs were echoed throughout the whole building. Between his heavy breathing, he spat some blood and tried to gather his nerve. He swore he almost felt as if something had punctured his lung, but he almost welcomed the sharp pain. Espinheiro retreated two nervous steps and looked around. The figure didn’t seem to be joking. Looking from a certain angle, beneath all the bruises masking his face, his blood-stained teeth, and his sturdy beard, his features were not at all unlike the Banner he had known before.

"Chefão, deseja que tratemos do negócio?” (“Chefão, do you want us to finish the job?”) One of the comrades finally broke the group's deep silence and put his hand in his wide trousers, ready to draw a gun. Each one more confused than the other.

“Saiam todos da minha vista…” ("Get out of my sight…”) Espinheiro took a yellow handkerchief out of his pants and wiped the sweat and spit from his forehead that was already running down to his chest. "Só fica o desgraçado aqui à minha frente.” (“Only the bastard in front of me stays”)

“Mas, não tá entendendo-” (“But you’re not understanding-“)

“Cê é surdo?! Fora da minha vista, já!” (“Are you deaf?! Out of my sight, now!”)

They all looked at each other, and the two monsters, who brought such a destabilizer, to their territory, swallowed in fear. Both were terribly worried that the decision to bring the individual into the warehouse hadn’t been well thought out. Had they just dragged an enemy through the favela, or worse…a Chefão’s ally? The area slowly became less crowded, as the comrades all exited through the back door. The further they moved away from the bizarre scenario they had encountered, the more vociferous the voices were, each proposing their theory.

When the damn back door finally closed, the two left behind respected the silence. Bruce got up slowly, trying to figure out if he could go through it without losing his conscious. He wiped his lips a little with his t-shirt and coughed tiredly.

“You're not Brian Banner for sure.” Espinheiro had uttered the phrase with perfect English, as if the whole Brazilian accent had entered an opposing dimension.

“Espinheiro, Chefão...What a huge fucking ego, han?”

Inside the building, breathing was the only thing you could hear. The aura was, of course, shrouded in discomfort and undiscovered chaos. Maybe if we were there in person, in such a gladiator battle, with all that tension, we could feel it.

“You look fucked up.” Espinheiro went to get a piece of cloth to give to Bruce, never taking his eyes off him.

“Yeah, thanks for that. I hope you can give me a cigarrette and a little something-something to recover my energy.” The scientist took a deep breath and wiped his bloody nose with his hand. He received the cloth, a bit dirty with oil. He looked around.

“Something-something? You gotta pay for that, boy.”

“Trust me.” Bruce smiled tiredly and closed his eyes, tilting his head, as if with open eyes he was, looking at the blue sky, covered by that dirty roof. Slowly, he cleaned his neck. “You don’t wanna go that way.”

Chefão swallowed his nervousness and ran his hand over the gun inside the red Nike shorts once more. There was such a certainty in him that he did not know whether killing the man would help him or create more trouble. He took a deep breath and tried to find the keys in his pocket to open a small, half-rusty green box.

He scanned its contents and took out a small plastic bag containing a rich white powder, a cigarette, and a match and gave them to the strange man. Even broken into pieces, he was still in a quiet drunken and relaxed state.

Bruce put the plastic bag on a small table in front of a chair and lit the cigarette, taking in the toxic tobacco flavor and its soothing effect on his muscles. Banner hadn’t smoked a good cigarette for a long damn time. He sat down in the undisturbed white plastic chair and spread his legs, relaxing into the poorly made throne.

“I don’t know what his son is doing here, but I ended my business relationship with Brian Banner many years ago. I owe him nothing.” Espinheiro followed the fugitive’s lead with another cigarette, opening an unconfortably warm beer.

“Well, my friend, that makes two of us.” Bruce scratched the back of his neck and thought that there was not much of a legacy of soap and water in his body.

“You got what you wanted, now get out.” Chefão snapped his fingers and looked at his worn-out hands.

“Good Lord, Espinheiro...Oh wait...I thought your name was Nicholai Christie?” The scientist exhaled the smoke in his lungs and looked directly at the man in front of him sitting in search of the reaction he was waiting for.

False Espinheiro, False Chefão took the gun out of his pants and aimed perfectly to hit the bastard’s forehead squarely.

“I'm gonna count to ten. When I say ten, you're gonna-“

“You don’t want to kill me. I have something you'll enjoy.” He was unafraid of that wretched weapon because dying wasn’t a possibility; he had tried several times before. However he was concerned that he could be found by the US Army.

“1.. 2...3...” False Espinheiro, False Chefão was counting in a menacing tone.

“I can protect you and your family. And I’m sure you don’t have protection for them. I can help you with that. Just listen to me.” His brown eyes were almost darkened in white, for the purpose of no life. 

False Espinheiro, False Chefão suddenly stopped counting and felt his left hand trembling. He tried to disguise it and lowered it, holding off on the killing act for another moment. Several thoughts crossed his mind, torturing him with incomplete questions and half-empty responses.

“Who are you, kid? And how did you find me?”

Bruce Banner opened the dubious plastic bag and let the magic white powder cover part of the table. He looked around and eventually found a twenty-dollar note lying on the shabby floor.

“I'm Dr. Bruce Banner and the US Army is after me for a reason that I won’t disclosure, obviously. I haven’t killed anyone yet, but if you shoot me, I’m be damn sure you're going to be the first one.” He drew a very curvy straight line with his little finger, but he didn’t get much of a result. He shook the note and rolled it up. Before False Espinheiro, False Chefão could answer, Banner cut him off quickly, continuing his line of thought. “You're incredibly easy to be found, the Secret Services are complete shit, as I can see. And I've located your family, too. Be careful about that. The information is mine now, but someone else can easily get it. And you may not be so lucky next time.”

“So, you're looking for a deal then.” It was no longer worth trying to keep up the charade. He scratched his beard and set himself aside, but with some, small, reluctance.  
“Exactly. Don’t worry, I won’t give you the problems my father gave you. I know you worked on several projects with him; You gave him some...questionable material. Zimbabwe is indeed the golden mine for that.

Nicholai Christie had been hiding behind the Espinheiro persona for over fifteen years. He had decided to take refuge in this favela carelessly and with attention, leaving his dear one and the five boys behind, so as to place them as safely as possible. He formed his empire with the sweat and suffering of others, building various chemical weapons for African terrorists and marketing many of his products to large countries like the Soviet Union, China, Japan, United Kingdom and, most importantly, the United States of America. It had been widely commented that many scientists throughout the globe used his valuable materials to carry out the most varied and daring experiments. Christie was a man of many trades who, unfortunately, came across Dr. Brian Banner, a crazy and dangerously intelligent man. In order for him to escape the death penalty years ago, he had disclosed all his contacts with Nicholai and where he resided. Fucking Banner. And now, in front of him, was his son, who looked scarily similiar to his father. Years ago, he had fallen into that manipulative situation but swore to himself that, for his family's life, he would not give in again.

Bruce approached the table with the cocaine was and snorted it quickly. His whole body filled with energy, like a ray of expanding light throughout his exhausted soul. The blood flowed violently, but the heart was calm. It did not free him of pain but disguised it for a delicious moment. He leaned back against the chair and laid his head back in relief.

“You're miserable just like your father, Banner.” Nicholai smiled, applauding the sad scene.

“Let’s not talk about my father. I just heard that the coke here was amazing, had to try it.”

“Son, it’s been incredible to meet your depressed ass, but it's time to go. You have too much information.”

Bruce leaned his elbow on the table and tried his best to make some sense of the fog, missing his glasses. He rubbed his eyes, exhausted, but he’d already planned this whole speech. 

“I have a track device implanted in my brain.If you kill me, this little friend in my head will turn off. I’ve got people on my back in the States. When they discover that I'm dead they will give the Secret Service information about where you and your family are.” Bruce was an incredibly convincing liar, even if the entire story sounded like a cheesy, badly written novel. He had discovered a short time ago that he had a hidden talent for intimidating others when he really needed to. “You know what they'll do when they catch your family, Christie. And it's not gonna be pretty.”

“What guarantees me you’re telling the truth? That sounds like a lot of bullshit to me.” Nicholai Christie wiped his hands and tried to compose himself. The look remained empty. Playing poker illegally year after year had been good for something, at least. “If you had those people helping you, you wouldn’t need to deal with me.”

“Will you shoot me to see it’s true? You're the one who'll lose.” 

Bruce was not concerned, but deep down he had some doubts about the approach he had chosen to take. He snorted more of the white powder and felt the thunder of adrenaline electrify it all. Though not nervous, his heart had begun to accelerate more than ideal. The worst that could happen was to let the other guy take care of things and then he would be easily found.. He had no choice.

“But.” Christie got up and started walking around in an attempt to haunt his opponent. “I'm always open for a good deal.”

“I can help you with your business. Make you even more money and, more importantly, more power.” He took a long drag from the deadly cigarette to relax his lungs. “Your family isn’t safe in Zimbabwe as you can see. And only power can protect them.”

“Go on, kid.”

“I'll tell you what I want from you, first. Some simple things. A house here in Rocinha. Great internet connection. The greatest laptop you can find. False documentation to cover my identity.” Banner looked around attentively and smiled. "And all the drugs I wish."

Christie burst out laughing, spitting all over. 

“And I can give you protection. You need a man with a functional brain. I'm not talking about going after what’s under your neighbor's bed, like your guys do. I'm referring to governors' bank accounts, some powerful people shit. All the money you can want without being caught. Entering the police system and getting all the stuff you need. Getting some of your best men get out of prison rather easily. I’ll be sure to get your family to Sweden, a new future. Good schools for your kids, a nice house, an excellent life. Guaranteeing you they won’t get hurt.”

“You will do that with what? You have nothing, boy. You're nobody.”

“If you give me what I want, I'll give you the world. You're going to be fine with all this. With money comes power. You can rule this entire country and laugh at everyone's faces, I promise you that.” The scientist got up and approached Christie slowly. "I am your best option. Better, I am your only option.”

Bruce was almost certain that all that theater realness he presented had come from those few italian gangster movies he had seen. He knew that he was not a threatening figure, and that whole spiel, despite having some real background, was centered in an illusory and fanciful aspiration. There were, however, chances of getting out of there successfully because he had the sense that there was a great weakness planted in Christie's soul.

Nicholai turned to face the negotiator. All the words sounded perfectly melodic, like a song in an unhealthily addictive symphony. Pronounced with such mastery and, strangely, with such sexuality that it was not possible to characterize. He scanned Banner's lifeless, sleepy gaze for a single reason to distrust him. Oh yes, there were many reasons: past experiences, vivid and scarcely rectified teachings, preconceptions in the psyche. It all screamed wrong. However, he understood perfectly well that the police were close yo sniffing him out, the comrades had little wisdom. His family constantly carrying their home on their backs, suffering, longing. Christie was a ruthless bastard with precious businesses but every death sentence of his was driven by emotion. His heart melted for his family, with their warmth and sweet spirits; his Achilles heel. A smart man but cursed by the warmth of the heart. He would hardly know that sensitivity would be his end.

But here he signed a contract with a fallen angel.  
* * *  
The lights of the strip club were blinding. The music was deafening, exciting and carnal as it filled the filthy, gloomy environment. The darkness, illuminated by the fluorescents lights, hid the sorrows of the souls; the tuneless tunes covered the shameless moans of the various lascivious songs. The smoke obscured the lungs of those poor women who rarely possessed beauty. Normally, what was between their legs was what mattered, you could forget the face (the devils even would even throw to their faces, destroying the reality of several of those women). Knowing the conditions of most of Rocinha, the space was of a liberal sumptuousness.

Bruce seldom admired the dancers and gave one dollar or another just to satisfy the most stubborn ones. The click announced the crack, beautifully consumed, to feed the addiction that increased from fifteen to fifteen minutes but that was never enough to remove the pain that corroded in his punished nature. It never fulfilled his emptiness and loneliness. The heart continued to run for blood, attributing life to that exhausted soul that life clearly did not want anymore. His left arm marked by red, purple, and sometimes even black areas like those hell holes had been stung by heroin several times a week. The purest alcohol degraded the spirit, senses did not obey him. Then he would sit in that corner, on the odorous couch, covered by cheap velvet imitating art, as if that group of poor and rotten people were something nice to look at.  
So much death injected, drunk, smoked and he was still there. In that unwanted body, in the misery of matter and morals, attached to that guy. He could not handle all that corrosive mortification of having a life condemned to a monster that resided within him, ready at any moment to explode. Inject more, drink more, smoke more.  
Six years too many in that routine. Bruce gave the stripper another dollar. Just one more night.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanna thank my dear friend, the talented Capnshellhead, for helping me translating this fic to English. 
> 
> Most of my Bruce Banner fics aren't inspired by a specific comic book. 
> 
> Twitter: @TheAlienBella


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